A Crooked Parallel
by EvalinaPhoenix
Summary: Kirk and Spock have fallen into a crooked parallel dimension: not in their time, not in their universe, our favorite platonic duo must find their way home. NOT slash. Rating for language and grown up situations. ON HIATUS.
1. Chapter One: Disasters and Diners

Summary: _Kirk and Spock have fallen into a crooked parallel dimension: not in their time, not in their universe, our favorite platonic duo must find their way home. NOT slash. Rating for language and grown up situations. _

_This was meant to be a quick **Author's Note**… "Meant to be" being the main laughable phrase there…But you might want to read it since it's probably the only time you'll see a header on this story beyond a basic disclaimer._

_Well, first off I must offer the not-so-standard, cover-my-posterior in case of some idiot with a law degree decides to try and get some money from a broke college student due to what I've written, disclaimer/author's note: the original Star Trek series (TOS) originally aired approximately 18 years, 9 months, and a few weeks before I was ever born. _

_Given that, it is physically impossible for TOS to be mine, unless I go the way of Jules Verne and bust out the time machine and for the life of me I can't get past 85 mph before the damned cops pull me over so time travel seems to be out of the question. The Reboot 'verse, from which this is mainly based, isn't mine either, nor is any other random timeline information from the multiple cannon universes that I choose to incorporate._

_Super thank you to the Vulcan Language Dictionary and any other source I dug up to make sure my Vulcan translations were correct; however, most Vulcan will be in-line translated or simply italicized and marked as Vulcan since I'm lazy at three am. Since I am a second-generation nerd, I'm actually fluent to a conversational level in standard Vulcan, though my father, who is fluent in Vulcan AND Klingon the super nerd he is, insists I am far too expressive in my pronunciations when I get riled. But whatever; I utilized several websites to make sure my translations/spellings were correct. If I get them wrong, please let me know. ^_^_

_Also, I know it's weird to do an AU (alternate universe) of an AU; I hope you enjoy my attempt anyway. I appreciate any reviews, especially critiques; readers are, of course, loved from the underside of the ninth circle to the outer thermosphere and back again three times._

_**Edit: Son of a gorram line break. What the hell does a girl have to do in order to get a line break to stick around here?**_

_**Edit, the Sequel: Apparently I've had the ROUGH DRAFT posted the entire time and didn't notice. Erk. So, now I've –tried- to fix the format and all the little mistakes I missed the first time. I promise chappy two is on its way!**_

_**Edit the Third: Frack me, the formatting on this sucks. Fixing it, I swear; trying to get all of them pretty much the same. Ta!**_

_**Edit the Fourth: Please, please, please I hope this is readable.  
**_

_**On with the story!**_

* * *

It had been three days since Captain James T. Kirk of Starfleet, Commander Spock of Vulcan, the Ambassador Blitzes and his aide/professional kiss-ass Mr. Zenith of Alpheratz Prime had crash landed on what they had initially assumed to be the planet Earth. They had been in transit from where the _Enterprise_ was docked at Starbase 7 to Starfleet Headquarters via the Alpheratzian transportation shuttle when they had encountered an odd ion cluster storm about ten miles from the upper atmosphere of Earth.

The same period of time, minus a few hours of being unconscious and/or taking care of those that were, had passed since they realized, as Captain Kirk had put it, they "weren't in Kansas anymore". The Earth they landed on didn't seem to have their frequency. Or any frequency they tried. Or anything beyond basic orbital satellites and a single Starbase above the atmosphere that the long range sensors could pick up. All of which had confused and then concerned the Captain and his First Officer.

. . .

Tapping into local radio frequencies, somehow in the antiquated FM wavelength, had garnered them the information that it was about an hour into January 1st, 2010.

"A bright new year to you all!" the cheerful radio announcer had said, slightly slurred words audible over the sounds of celebration in the background and the clink of half-full glasses was sharp over the FM broadcast. "It's bitchin' cold, but at least there's snow on the ground and more to come! Traffic-wise, stay off the Dan Ryan if you know what's good for ya..."

. . .

A thorough study of sensors showed that they were in the state of Illinois, in the heartland of what was known as the United States of America in the time they found themselves. Temperatures were in the lower 20s Fahrenheit and there was at least three feet of snow on the ground in the general area. They had spent most of their first two days surveying their surroundings, making sure they weren't going to become bear food or something similarly unpleasant then attempting to make basic repairs on the much damaged shuttle.

"So...we're in Illinois. About thirty miles from Chicago?" Kirk had asked reviewing the information Spock had pulled up on the slightly-scorched Padd as they walked around the perimeter of the shuttle, trying to locate the hull breach that was letting all the warm air out of the shuttle.

Snow crunched underfoot, loud in the relative silence of the forest. Kirk had enjoyed about three minutes of the pristine snow, much of the stuff being melted initially by their rather sudden arrival only to have the shuttle buried under another seven inches of snow the first night after their crash.

"Yes, Captain. Our current location is approximately 36.8 miles from the city limits of the metropolis known as Chicago." Spock's nose had turned green with the cold, being almost the only thing exposed to the frigid temperatures. An emergency blanket had become a makeshift head and neck wrap for the temperature-sensitive Vulcan; thankfully there had been more appropriate cold weather gear stowed in one of the overhead bins, dense enough for the typically frigid temperatures of Alpheratz Prime

"Approximately," Kirk found the exact amount of the estimate amusing, chuckling.

. . .

"How in the seventh star is this funny, Kirk?" the Ambassador Blitzes had demanded, slamming a bandaged fist onto the charred side of the shuttle. Clad in the typical garb, the Ambassador had no issue with the cold, being from the polar planet himself. Likewise, his assistant was comfortable, almost enjoying the weather that reminded him of home, ignoring his hot-tempered superior in favor of enjoying the landscape.

Kirk scowled, drawing himself up to his full high and glaring down his nose at the slightly shorter Alpheratzian male. "Do try to stay calm, sir," the human had said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Remain calm? Remain calm? Who do you think you are?" Ambassador Blitzes roared, scaring several birds out of the trees above them. Snow thumped to the ground in the wake of their escape.

. . .

Kirk rounded on him, the PADD still clutched in one hand.

"With all due respect sir, we are two hundred years plus in the past, injured and with a broken shuttle, in the middle of winter, also devoid of any long-term survival supplies because of your xenophobic paranoia. Had you agreed to take either the instant transport or one of the Enterprise shuttles, as proper Starfleet protocol dictates, even if we were still in this situation, at least we would have a chance of adequate survival without discovery! As it stands now, we are, quite simply, fucked. It's a tossup between humor and violence at this point, Ambassador. Which would you prefer?"

Silence had been his answer.

"Now, then; which way do you think we should head, Mr. Spock?"

It had been a day and a half since the ever-graceful Mister Zenith had accidentally dropped all of their rations into the little bit of river still actively flowing and watched them float away instead of calling for assistance. It had been a full day since their last meal.

"All right, we're going into town," the Captain had decided about ten minutes after the sun rose.

Off they had set, unfortunately having to leave behind Spock's emergency blanket scarf in favor of being as inconspicuous as possible.

* * *

While James T. Kirk didn't usually frequent local greasy spoons unless nursing a hangover, the flashing neon "Open" sign and scent of oil fried everything nearly made him want to weep in gratefulness. The quartet escaped the snowy outdoors in favor of the well-warmed diner as the bells of a nearby church rang for the start of the 8 o'clock mass.

. . .

The interior was a study of faded color and gleaming appliances, all with a thin coat of cleaner or grease on them. Booths ran along every free wall, a bar top seating area stretched from the far end of the diner to where it smacked into the register counter and the bakery case.

"Thank you, please come again!" the waitress called to the departing quartet of loudly still-intoxicated college kids that had been half asleep in the booths since a little after four that morning.

. . .

With a sigh, she pocketed the measly three dollar and fifty cent tip they had left in return for taking up a booth and a half for the last four hours; resisting the urge to curse the obvious road trip kids until she was blue in the face, she started dragging the leftover plates into the bus bin, stacking the glasses before stashing them. Another thirty seconds of the diner shuffle and the table was set to rights, place mats already down on the clean table and smiley face made from ketchup just an irritating memory.

Amelia, or Am as her name tag said, gave her bandana a nudge back with the back of one hand, taking a mental inventory of the current customers as she glanced around the mostly-empty diner.

Three construction workers sat at booth seven, within three steps of the jukebox that was thankfully silent at the moment and good old Johnny in the third seat of the bar, just out of arms reach of the baked good case as he was every Tuesday morning. A young mother and her temperamental two year old son had just finished their breakfast, cheese omelet and chocolate chip pancakes and bacon respectively. Amelia gave a nod as the mother raised a hand to signal for the check.

All in all, it wasn't the busiest morning ever, but lunch rush would be flowing in soon enough. With a groan for the twinge in her lower back, she hefted the full bin on one hip, thinking dark thoughts in the general direction of Miles, the useless bus boy and dishwasher.

. . .

'_Is it against company policy to "accidentally" drop some the dishwasher's cell phone in the wash sink if they won't stay off it while on the clock?_' Amelia wondered as she slid behind the counter, wandering the length of the serving bar.

"More coffee, gentlemen?" she asked as she paused to shift the bin higher on her hip. She thought their heads looked like bobble heads on a dashboard when going down a country road as they nodded vigorously, only slightly out of synch with each other. "Comin' right up, guys."

Someone smacked the counter bell as she swung through the swinging door to the kitchen.

"Be right with ya!" Amelia called, practically tossing the bin up onto the sink shelf. "Miles, there are dishes to be done."

"Yeah!" came the distracted answer from near the back door.

"Miles! Dishes, now please," Amelia repeated rolling her eyes as the counter bell was smacked again.

"Yeah, I'll be right there, Am," the pimple-faced, barely legal kid pulled his mouth away from his cell phone long enough to answer Amelia. "I know, baby, but I'm at work and-"

"Dishes, now, pipsqueak!" the cook, known as Critch, snapped, waving the carving knife at the kid from the prep table. "Tell yer girlie you're on the clock an' Imma kick your ass if she calls ya again 'fore you leave."

"Yessir, Mister Critch," Miles scrambled to do as the burly man demanded, "right away, sir."

. . .

Miles had just seen the sunny side of twenty one a week before, Amelia remembered with a smirk. He was so hung over the day after he had thrown up by the dumpster just from the smell.

"Thank you, Critch, my darling," Amelia smiled, snagging another pot of coffee from the hot plate and heading out of the galley style kitchen. She grinned as she heard the splash-clatter-curse that meant Miles was actually doing the dishes. "Grab a seat, I'll be right with you," Amelia said cheerfully to the quartet of guys standing awkwardly at the front counter as she practically zoomed by.

. . .

"Refill, Johnny?" she asked the grizzly bear of a man hulking over a massive plate of scrambled eggs. He grunted in response, holding his cup out. "There ya go, hon; fresh from the drip. Your pancakes will be out in a sec."

Johnny mumbled something resembling thanks around another mouthful, barely halting the shovel of food from the plate to his mouth.

Moving away, Amelia ripped the check off her order pad after drawing a smiley face under the total and dropped it next to the mother who was currently trying to pull her hyper toddler from under the table. It took another minute or two to get over to the new occupants in booth twelve sans coffee pot, but Amelia made it.

. . .

"Sorry for the wait, gentlemen; and welcome to Donna's Diner*," she smiled at them, reaching over the table to pull the menus out from the end of the table. "Can I get anything started for you? Drinks, perhaps?"

The four exchanged glances, a beat of awkward silence sat heavily around the table. The older two looked at the younger expectantly, as if waiting to follow their example.

"Okay then! I'll give you guys a few minutes. Yell if you need anything, okay?" Amelia's cheerfulness continued, even if the lack of response was strange. She wandered away from the table, cleaning up the mess the mother and child had left behind, glancing over a time or two at the quartet.

. . .

Jammed into the left booth were the older two of the four. The eldest was pushing his mid-fifties or so, if the deep frown lines, receding hairline, and, what hair there was, going gray were any indication; he was a dead ringer for an unpleasant businessman or long standing governmental toady. His posture was stiff and he was obviously uncomfortable in the diner, especially sitting next to the mousy pipsqueak that kept calling him 'sir'.

'_So, gopher and boss man are out for lunch… But what's with the other two?_' Amelia wondered to herself, pulling Johnny's pancakes off the pass-thru to deliver them.

The blonde seemed incapable of sitting completely still, blue eyes constantly flicking around the room. The 'devil can kiss my ass' smile was screwed in place, it seemed, especially when the older guy leaned closer to whisper something to him.

'_Oh yay, whispered arguments_,' she thought with a roll of her eyes.

. . .

While the diner had a good clientele base, it was mostly from State Street and Interstate 90* that wound past a stone's throw and drainage ditch away from the diner's front door. The middle of nowhere was a bit of an understatement as the town seemed to reside smack dab in between a bunch of corn fields, cow pastures, and something resembling a city of farmers and those trying to escape the city.

"God dammit, Kirk! This isn't some damn cultural excursion! Our splitting up is not a good idea; what are you going to do, go gallivanting around with the local for some color?" the older man snapped, barely audible over the racket of the jukebox.

The jukebox kicking out Bon Jovi's "Wanted, Dead or Alive" drowned out the rest of their conversation, for the most part.

The fourth sat perfectly straight next to the window, surveying the whole of the diner from time to time, but mostly just staring at her; when he turned his head slightly to respond to something the blonde said, Amelia's eyes widened when she noticed the pointed ears.

"No way," Amelia muttered under her breath. "Cosplayers here? We're practically in eastern Bumblefuck!" It made sense, what with the two on the right being in what could pass for regulation blacks and the mousey guy was carrying a nifty iPad looking-thing with the Starfleet emblem embossed on it in gunmetal gray.

Amelia hurried over, intent on finding out what a bunch of possibly cosplaying nerdlings like her were doing just off the highway and halfway to Nowheresville.

. . .

"Ready for drinks, then?" she smiled, cheeky in response to the scowling old man. "If you haven't had a chance to glance over the menu, we have Coke products like: Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Strawberry, Orange, and Grape Fanta, Dr. Pepper, root beer, lemonade, sweetened and unsweetened tea, and a couple of assorted juices. Oh, and water," she added as an afterthought. "Of course we have water."

"Coke for me," the blonde said the flirtatious grin apparent as his default expression. "If you please, sweetheart." At the disapproving eyebrow arch from the pointy-eared guy, Amelia struggled not to burst out laughing, the Spock eyebrow making her want to make a snarky comment. That urge was less successfully smothered.

"Well, even if I don't, I'll be nice and bring it to you anyway since I like not getting fired," Amelia returned with a grin, jotting the beverage under 'seat 1'. Big flirt equaled big tip, if cards were played right. . 'Kirk and Spock cosplayers. So much win.'

The blonde laughed, slouching in the booth seat. "Thank you… Am? Amber or Amanda?" he asked, referring to the name tag with a nod.

"Ah, so close and yet so far. It's Amelia, like the adventurous wench that got herself lost in the Bermuda Triangle," she answered, turning her attention to the old man with a slight shift.

"Sweet tea," the old man snapped, irritated by the Kirk look-like's flirting.

"Okie dokie; lemon or no lemon?" Amelia briefly imagined gagging the unpleasant man with said citrus, trying not to giggle at the mental picture. She must be punchier than she though, being so easily amused.

"No lemon." Whatever stick was up his butt must have been a big one with as grouchy as he was.

"All right then. And for you?" she asked the mouse, who echoed the sweet tea, no lemon. '_Joy, a mindless worker drone; who were these two supposed to be?_' she wondered. "And last, but not least, what about you, darlin'?" she asked the stoic man in the corner. '_Kirk and Spock maybe? Kudos for not breaking character, seriously._'

"What types of tea do you have?" he asked, glancing over the menu but not seeing a list.

"We have your basic herbals: chamomile and mint, and then we have a berry mix, lemon zinger, Irish Breakfast, and a Pomegranate Spice mix that's made by a local florist." Amelia glanced over her shoulder as Critch called 'order up!' from the pass-thru and slapped the bell several times. "Be right there, Critch!" She returned her attention to the Spock cosplayer. "What'll it be?"

"The Pomegranate Spice, please." Amelia half-expected him to follow it with "it seems the logical choice" or something there similar, but he didn't.

"All right, give me a few minutes and I'll have those for ya. Go ahead and glance over the menu and let me know when y'all are ready to order. The specials today are steak n' eggs with hash browns and toast; the vegetarian chili and a side salad; and pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy and veggies." She managed to rattle off the specials in one mostly-unhurried breath, frowning when Critch smacked the bell again. "Yell if you need anything!" She hurried off to deliver the order and cash out Johnny so he could get back on the road.

* * *

An hour later the diner was almost fully packed and Amelia was still the only server on the floor, half of the cosplaying quartet still took up booth twelve and the phone was ringing again.

Amelia practically dove over the counter to grab the phone from the hook, knocking down the pen holder with the cord.

"Dam- Ahem. Donna's Diner, this is Amelia." She had a tray of drinks balanced in her left hand, the phone squished between her right shoulder and her ear. "Stephanie, I swear to- No! You can't- But-No! I'm not- Seriously, you can't-"Amelia sighed as Stephanie continued her tearful begging. "Fine. But Donna's going to hear about it this time. I'm not covering for you again. Yeah, whatever. Save your thanks for someone who isn't pulling a double for your ass." She slammed the phone back down with a scowl, taking a deep breath to calm herself.

"Hey lady? Our drinks?" a chirping twit called from table three. "Sometime today would be nice!"

"Coming right up!" Amelia said smile screwed back on despite the desire to scream as Critch smacked the order bell.

"Order up!"

"Be right there! Mitch, bus tables!" she called back into the kitchen. "Now, pipsqueak!"

. . .

Amelia hauled ass around the diner for ten minutes straight, breathlessly leaning against the side of booth twelve. "Still doing all right, gentlemen?"

"Yes, thanks," the Kirk guy smiled. "Do you want a hand?"

Amelia stared blankly at him. "With what, hon?"

Kirk choked on a chuckle, glancing around. "This, hon," he echoed her endearment, motioning to the packed diner. "You're running yourself crazy around here and Stephanie just called out."

"How the hell did you-"

"My buddy here had great hearing," Kirk smiled, jerking a thumb towards Spock, who nodded.

"Ah-huh. Well, unless you want to work for your meal, I'm afraid it's not possible hon." Amelia huffed in annoyance when Critch smacked the order bell. "Coming!" She turned back to Kirk. "But thanks for offering. Refill on your tea, babe?"

"No, thank you," the man she had nicknamed Spock in her mind said, response terse as she was feeling.

"Okie dokie!" It was smile or scream at this point. Amelia hurried away, blowing her hair out of her eyes.

. . .

Ten minutes later, Amelia slid back into the kitchen to dump her bus bin and saw Miles on his cell phone again. "Miles!" she snapped, scowling at the guilty look he shot her. "Your ass better be calling the Pope or your mama better be dying if you're on the phone again."

"Tiffany's in labor," Miles said, looking slightly ill, shutting the phone.

"Who?" Amelia heaved the bus bin onto the sink, pressing a hand to her lower back. "Who's in labor?"

"My girlfriend, Tiffany! We've been together since middle school; she comes in all the time. She's kinda hard to miss."

Amelia flipped through her mental Rolodex. "Pregnant chick with purple hair?"

"Yes! She's in labor!" he said again, weaving a bit as his pallor went waxy. "Oh god, I'm gonna be a dad…"

"Fuck me," Amelia sighed, shoving Miles down onto the overturned milk crate so he didn't fall down. "All right, put your head between your knees and breathe, kid. I'll be right back."

She snagged the order off the pass thru before Critch could smack the bell.

Critch grabbed her arm before she could pull the last plate. "Listen, we can't run this place just you an' me, girlie. We ain't that good."

"Yeah, I know. But I have an idea, darlin'; just call Missus D and let her know Stephie called out and Mitch's lady is popping. I'm snagging some temp help."

"Wait, the preggie with the funny hair's his girl?" Critch wiped his brow with the back of his arm. "Well fuck me."

"That's what I said," Amelia smirked, scooping up the three platters and swinging back out of the kitchen.

. . .

After depositing the meal to booth seven, bussing booths eleven and fifteen, refilling the loud schmucks at table three for the fifth time, Amelia paused again at booth twelve. "You still wanna help out, Blondie?"

"Yeah, me and my buddy here," Kirk jerked a thumb back towards Spock, who was watching silently. "We want to help."

Amelia tapped her order pad against her leg as she thought for a moment, her decision made when the order bell and the counter bell rang almost simultaneously.

"All right. You're on drinks and bussing, Blondie. Do you mind doing dishes, hon?" she asked Spock. "We have some huge gloves if you're weird about getting your hands completely icked up by the sinks."

"Dishes should be a satisfactory assignment," Spock said, arching a brow as table three whistled for her attention. "Is that… regular treatment as a server?"

"Indeed." Amelia snorted in amusement, smacking a hand over her mouth when the eyebrow went up.

"I would most certainly prefer to do dishes," Spock said dryly.

"Okie dokie. What are your names, again?"

"Uh…" Kirk and Spock exchanged a glance.

Amelia rolled her eyes. "Okay, so you don't have to bullshit me, how about you tell me what I can call you or you get stuck with a nickname I give you," she sighed, holding up a finger for patience when someone called for her. When silence only greeted her promise, she smirked. "All right, you're Jim and you're Spock. Deal with it." She shoved the bus bin at Spock and headed off to booth three.

"Fascinating."

"Well, then, Spock, shall we?"

Six hours later, shift change finally hit and the three of them stood outside the diner. Amelia dropped the tailgate of her emerald green truck, spotted with rust, and flopped backwards. She cushioned the back of her head with her arm, stretching her tired body across the slightly dirty bed.

"Owe. I think I want to take a week off and sleep. And get a massage." She groaned as she tried to wiggle into a comfortable position on the unforgiving metal. "So where are you guys staying?" Amelia asked them on a sigh, sitting up and giving a giant stretch when getting comfortable was impossible. Another shift and she was laying back down, this time dangling backwards off the tailgate with her feet hooked in the netting along the side of the truck bed.

"We have no clue," Kirk answered honestly. "We don't have anywhere to go, really. And with our share of tips, I don't think we have enough for a hotel."

She looked at them, upside down as she was, and studied them for a moment.

Spock still had water stains where the apron hadn't been appropriate cover, and Kirk looked ready to fall over and sleep for a week like she wanted to. "So you don't have anywhere to stay?"

"That is correct," Spock said, looking uncomfortable as his shoe gave a pathetic squish.

"Not so much on forethought? Just came to Elgin with no transportation, no place to stay and no money?"

"It was not intentional-" Spock began, what passed for a frown on his face placing a crease between his eyebrows.

"Okay then. You can stay with me."

"Are you sure that's-" Kirk began.

"You're arguing?" Amelia sat up enough to glare at him.

"No, no; thank you, thanks very much." Spock inclined his head in gratitude.

"Welcome." She flopped back down. "We'll head out as soon as I feel like moving." Thunder rumbled overhead and all three looked to the sky. "Make that as soon as I think it'll start raining, snowing, or otherwise precipitating on me," she grumbled as she levered herself up. "All right, boys, let's get goin'."

* * *

**Another Author's Note:**

_*The diner is based off a place I actually went to, called Alexander's Restaurant in Elgin, Illinois. It really is halfway to Eastern Bumblefuck out there; nothing but highways, trees, and a few subdivisions. Somehow, Elgin is the eighth largest city in Illinois, current population estimated over 100,000 people, but it still manages to be in the middle of nowhere and the sidewalks roll up at 8:30pm. I don't get it. I never have. Lol._

_Super sorry for the re-post insanity, but I'm trying to get it in a readable format. _ Let me know how it looks, darlings!  
_

_Also, reviews are loved. ^_^_

_~Eva_


	2. Chapter Two: Sarcasm, Spacemen, and Snow

_**Author's Notes: **__Now that school is out, I've actually got time to post and all that. And I've not got much to say here, without spoiling this chapter. So…Oh yeah! Dearest Daffodil, I stole your apartment for Amelia. _ I'd say I'm sorry but I'm not. Also, you still have my copy of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". Give it back, damn you! Also, endless thanks to my darling princess of inspiration and sharp stick of motivation, she of the awesome Phantom fanfic who has helped me keep going through these dark past few months of utter crazy. I will probably only update once every two weeks since life seems to like exploding on me on a fairly regular basis. Anyway! Sorry for the delay and on with the chapter!_

_**Edit: Frackin' line breaks loathe me apparently. Let's hope this format is easier to read! ^_^**_

* * *

"Welcome to Casa De Amelia," she announced with a sweep of one arm, shaking the snow out of her hair. "It's not too much, but it is my little corner of the world. Come on in."

Stomping the last of the slush from her shoes, Amelia stepped inside just ahead of Kirk and Spock; she automatically kicked her shoes onto the shoe rack and wandered barefoot towards the heavy drape hanging over the entry to the rest of the apartment, shaking her legs to get the damp chill of her pants away from her legs. The tips jangling in her pocket got dropped into a fishbowl on a small table near the end of the hallway, her apron tossed over it.

"Coats go here," Amelia told them, hanging hers on a hook near the drape. "And ditch the shoes, if you please, gentlemen."

. . .

Captain Kirk and Commander Spock stepped carefully into the apartment, noticing the chill.

"Is your heat on?" Kirk inquired.

They had just trudged up three flights of very cramped stairs and Kirk was more than a little out of breath as well as slightly alarmed that he could see his own while they were indoors.

"Frack. I'll check. Is it cold in here?" Amelia exhaled, frowning when she saw her breath cloud the air before her. "Frack and a half. I'm wearing so many gorram layers I can't even tell anymore. Shoes off, please!" Amelia disappeared through the curtain, swearing audibly a few moments later when something crashed to the floor. Both men complied with her request, shedding their shoes as they shared a worried glance.

. . .

"Is everything all right, Amelia?" Kirk called, walking through the curtain as Amelia had, Spock directly behind him. "Oh my god…Spock; look at all the books!"

"Peachy keen, jellybean! I've got this!" she called back, her voice muffled.

The apartment was of good size; a large room served as a living room and dining room at the same time, nearly every wall hidden by bookshelves of various heights, with exception of the wall that was almost nothing but windows and the wall-length radiator.

"There is a great many books, Captain. Is this a personal collection?" Spock asked, flicking his gaze quickly over each of the labeled shelves. There were over a thousand books dispersed on the various shelves, as well as any table or relatively flat surface around the room.

"I don't know; hey, Amelia, are all the books yours?" Kirk picked up a random book from the shelf closest to him, something about a guide to the Galaxy. "Or did you knock over a library?"

* * *

The living room was fairly crowded: there was an ugly yellow-green couch somewhere beneath a dozen colorful throw pillows directly across from an entertainment center that held a television and a few other electronic devices, a two-seater chair stuffed into the far corner and a small coffee table buried under a pile of mail and an empty glass vase.

. . .

"Mine, my dad's that I inherited when he passed, and the little red shelf is library books so they don't get mixed in," Amelia called from the only room that had a door. "Why do you ask?"

The room itself was divided in two parts by another tall bookshelf and an old changing screen with an embroidered purple dragon stretching across its three panels. Closest to them was a small, circular white wrought iron table and a trio of matching chairs.

"There are a lot of books here, that's all." He set the book back down, noticing an entire shelf of nothing but mythology. "Hey! Joseph Campbell! He's awesome; I loved Thousand Faces."

To their left was a spare bedroom, the door lying against the frame completely off its hinges that was slowly being overtaken by sewing supplies and a small mountain of fabric. To their right was a galley-style kitchen, a beaded curtain with a smiley face serving as the doorway. Every window in the place had thick curtains over them, currently pulled open.

"Me too. I'll be out in a second, all right?" From the only room with a door came another crash. "Gorram piece of- Ha! You will not defeat me!"

. . .

Spock's eyebrow inched toward his hairline. "Is she waging a war, Captain?"

"It sounds like she's trying to fix something, Spock. The heat?" Kirk asked, still rather transfixed by the overwhelming collection of books.

"Frackin-err-ouch!" After another clatter-clash-thump-clang, there was an ominous rattling noise from the coils underneath the windows.

"Are you in need of assistance?" Spock asked, already heading past Kirk to see what the commotion was.

. . .

"No, I got it," Amelia called back, muttering obscenities under her breath again as she pulled herself off the floor. "Hey, is the radiator making noise yet?" As the clatter of tools being dropped into a tool box was heard, the change in temperature was becoming evident as the radiator began doing its job properly.

"Yeah. Is there a boiler leak?" Kirk asked, poking his head into the bedroom, only to see the back half of Amelia disappeared through a hole in the wall.

"Not a leak, it's just ancient. The stupid thing won't work for more than a week without crapping out on me. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm totally looking forward to summer this year." Amelia crawled back out of the wall and pulled the pocket door closed. "It should last through the night. I'll set up a space heater for you guys just in case."

"That's great; Donna mentioned that you might be willing to put us up for a night or two," Kirk noticed another overflowing amount of books in this room as well, though there was a bed shoved in one corner and a trio of guitars mounted on the wall near a desk with a trio of monitors and various other electronic devices.

"Yeah, you had mentioned she sent you earlier. Did you happen across her cabin or something, lost in the woods?" Amelia kicked the toolbox against the wall, giving a nod of satisfaction when the lid slammed itself shut. She motioned the men out of her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

"Uh…sort of?" Kirk smiled winningly, unfazed when Amelia turned a glare on him. "We were in the woods, yeah, and Donna offered her assistance."

"Ah-huh. And what are you not telling me?" Amelia asked, flopping backwards onto the couch.

. . .

"Captain, I believe this is where Ms. Quinn implied that honesty would be the wisest course of action," Spock offered his opinion. "Though it still seems illogical."

Amelia snorted in amusement. "Oh yeah, that reminds me! I can't just call you Kirk and Spock for forever. I enjoy cosplaying as much as the next girl but I'm not that big a nerd, thank you. What are your names? Your real names."

. . .

The Captain and First Officer of the Enterprise looked at one another for a moment the silent conversation seemingly effective enough for them; Kirk shrugged and made a motion equating to 'go ahead'.

"I am Spock of Vulcan."

"And I am Captain James Tiberius Kirk of Earth."

Amelia blinked then scowled as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Bullshit."

* * *

"Stay here." Amelia commanded, almost slamming the door of her truck shut as she stood knee-deep in the snow drift she had jumped into as she exited.

Muttering about morons and Enterprise-loving crazy people, she trudged her way onto the shoveled walkway, stamping her feet in annoyance as more snow slid into the shoes she had hurriedly shoved her feet into when she had left the house. Amelia knocked firmly three times on the bright yellow painted front door of her boss's house, the color seeming brighter against the winter twilight and the glow of the porch light.

'_Temper held in check, Am. No yelling at your boss; calling the chick who signs your paychecks a fucking moron accomplishes absolutely nothing._'

. . .

"Quinn… I know you're home, boss lady. Come on, now," she knocked again, hearing movement inside but no response from the actual occupant. Amelia sighed, yanking her hat off in frustration. She glanced back over her shoulder as she raked her fingers through her hair, scratching as she debated knocking again.

. . .

Amelia jangled her keys impatiently as she heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the door. With a sigh, she glanced over her shoulder to her truck; there was no way in hell she was going to leave her keys in the ignition with Crazy Number One and Crazy Number Two in there.  
While they were nice guys and all, there was only so much she was going to deal with. Having her truck stolen by some weirdo wonder-twins that thought they were television characters would simply be a spectacular end to an already hellish day. When the door still didn't open, Amelia scowled and this time her fist met the yellow painted surface hard enough to have it rattle in its frame.

. . .

"Gorram it! Donna Quinn, open the door right now!" Amelia pounded on the door until her hand hurt. The truck doors slamming shut behind her and snow-crunching steps approaching made her wince. "Frack me… I have **not** had enough sleep for this."

"Is she home?" Kirk asked, taking the trio of porch stairs in one single, energetic bound, dusting the snow off his shoulders. "Because we can always wait here if we're underfoot," he offered, well aware of the irritated silence Amelia was inflicting on them. "Or unwanted."

Amelia firmly ignored him, refusing to turn around as she nearly pressed her ear against the door to better hear the quacking noises that heralded Quinn's approach. "Quinn; I can hear your quacking slippers so open the door." Another door-rattling knock made Amelia's hand throb. "Quinn!"

. . .

"Why hello, Amelia," Donna Quinn, a smile like a toothpaste commercial plastered across her face, opened the door further. "How delightful to see you, darling girl." When Quinn shifted her weight to lean against the door jam, the duck slippers she wore on her feet gave another quack. "I didn't expect you to stop by today."

"Bullshit," Amelia fisted her hands on her hips, chin going up to glare at her boss. "What the hell is going on, Quinn?"

"And you brought the boys back! How delightful," Quinn wiggled a few fingers in greeting to the human and half-Vulcan directly behind Amelia. "How are you, gentlemen?"

"Just fine, thanks. Spent a good day's work down at your diner, as you thought we would end up doing," Kirk told her, offering a sunny smile.

"Well, isn't it delightful that you enjoyed yourself today?" Quinn's smile brightened when Amelia gave a twitch of agitation.

"Yeah, isn't everything delightful?" Amelia's voice was thick with sarcasm. She wrapped her arms around her to ward off the chill that even her agitation couldn't fight. She had neglected to put a coat back on in her haste as she had herded the insane duo out of her apartment and into her truck. "You sent them to the diner, Quinn" she accused, motioning with a jerk of her head to the pair behind her. "Intentionally. Just to find me."

"Indeed I did," Quinn agreed cheerfully, moving to one side and motioning them into the house.

"Wha-Okay." Amelia shook her head, the blatant agreement throwing her off. "We need to talk."

"Delightful; please come in! I'm sure this is going to be an enjoyable evening."

"I want a drink," Amelia pouted, stomping the snow off her boots.

Everything in the living room of Donna Quinn's cabin was exceedingly colorful, even the paisley covered couch, and absolutely nothing matched. It appeared that a blind hippie on LSD had likely been the decorator, picking a random hodgepodge of décor from several centuries and simply recovering everything in neon flamingo pink, hallucinated hippopotamus purple or electric lime green. It would almost make one's eyes bleed had more lights been on; thankfully, the only illumination was the fireplace and a trio of small hanging lights that looked like small moons dangling over the center of the room.

. . .

"They think they're fictional characters." Amelia bit out without preamble, flopping on the floor closest to the fireplace, attempting to defrost her wet, frozen toes. "From a stupid television show that-"

"No, actually," Kirk interrupted, annoyed, "we are people from the future, it just happens to be a parallel future. Why does that seem so implausible?" the blue-eyed Captain asked, sitting down on the neon pink couch that Quinn directed them to.

"Right! Because that's not crazy at all! You're Captain James Tiberius Kirk, badass from Riverside, Iowa, circa the 23rd century, delinquent gone respectable captain of the Enterprise and I'm Amelia-gorram-Earhart, back from an uncertain demise in the Bermuda Triangle," she snarled back, holding her hands out to the fireplace and clenching them.

. . .

"You appear remarkably youthful for someone one hundred and thirteen point four-seven years of age," Spock offered, seating himself where Quinn motioned for him to do so, opposite his Captain.

"Bite me," Amelia glared at the entire room, narrowing her eyes further when Quinn started laughing heartily.

"As I am a vegetarian by nature, I do not think that resorting to cannibalism would be a productive measure at the present time," Spock told her levelly, "but the offer for sustenance from your person is greatly appreciated." Kirk started laughing as well, doubled over in merriment as Spock and Amelia continued arguing.

"That's not what I meant, you-you…you green blooded hobgoblin, you!"

"I find it curious that a 19th century aviator would have knowledge of the copper-based nature of my blood." Spock glanced to Quinn, hoping for a more sensible response, but only received a sunny smile.

"I didn't actually mean that I'm Amelia Earhart, Mister Spock," she rolled her eyes. "My name is Amelia. I'm human, from Chicago, and I'm twenty one years old."

"I do not understand; if you are not Amelia Earhart, why make the statement that you were when you were properly identifying the Captain and myself?"

"I-you-I didn't-" Amelia sputtered, heaving herself to her feet. "I was being sarcastic!"

He arched an eyebrow at her, prompting a growl of irritation. "I am also genuinely curious how you seem to be knowledgeable about us both, despite your protestations that we are, in fact, fictional characters."

"I'm a Trekkie, you twit. Of course I know that you've, well, not you, but Vulcans, they have copper-based blood!"

. . .

"All right, I'll bite: what's a Trekkie?" Kirk leaned closer to Quinn to ask, tuning out their bickering.

"Someone who watches a certain show based on the supposedly fictional Starfleet personnel in the theoretical future. There are several different versions of it and it is commonly referred to as 'Star Trek', with each series having its own designation. As I told you earlier, here in this timeline, you gentlemen are fictional characters. This particular timeline won't see an organization akin to Starfleet for nearly another full millennia, and that is only because of several wars and a great deal of devastation yet to come."

"Oh. So, technically she's right?" Kirk looked thoughtful, watching his First Officer and the friendly but temperamental human continue bickering.

"Technically. Actually, this is delightful to me; I haven't seen Amelia get this riled up for quite some time, since her father passed away last spring."

"Hmm…" Kirk turned his attention back to the verbal sparring.

. . .

"It is illogical to assume-" Spock began.

"Don't get me started on illogical, buddy," Amelia cut him off. "You're not born for another two hundred and twenty years! How the hell is that logical that you're here on Earth? Fall through the Nexus? Fly through some temporal anomaly? Piss off a Q?"

"How is it that you know my date of birth?" Spock would not admit to enjoying the passionate debate, but there was a certain level engagement in the current emotional but logical progression to Amelia's thoughts, even if the decibel at which she conveyed them was highly unnecessary.

"I know a lot about you, Mister Spock." Amelia jerked her chin up, smirking.

"I find that highly unlikely," the half-Vulcan replied, finally standing from the couch. "As you maintain that you are from this time, you may know certain facts that any self-proclaimed 'Trekkie' may be aware of, but that does not imply anything other than a basic working knowledge of the fictional character with which I share certain parallels."

. . .

Amelia threw her hands in the air in frustration, then stabbed a finger towards the half Vulcan. "Fine then! Parallels? I'm curious to know what parallels there are, myself. The Spock I know of, his mother is Amanda Grayson, a human schoolteacher from Earth who puts up with a whole lot of shit just to be with your, sorry, his father."

. . .

She took a breath, gathering steam as she went toe-to-toe with the Vulcan, tilting her head up to glare at him, in his personal space but refraining from actually coming in physical contact with him.

"You've got a half brother that you haven't seen since you were a child because he was exiled for being too free-thinking and emotionally developed. You had a pet _sehlat_ as a child, one you considered your only friend at the time. And your father's people are a bunch of illogical, bigoted, nitwits who, under the assumption of that the opposite of logic is emotion instead of the true converse which is illogic, have gotten a metaphoric stick so far up their collective Vulcan asses that they preach emotional repression to the point of completely inflexible perceptions! Case in point: said half-brother Sybok and the inability that you personally have to reconcile your human heritage with your Vulcan ancestry."

Spock was silent for a moment, processing the intimate details of his personal life that Amelia seemed privy to, unsettled.

. . .

"Need I mention chocolate, chess, or the beautiful Lieutenant Nyota Uhura at this point?" she asked in a saccharine sweet tone, laughing victoriously when his cheeks bloomed with green, as did the tips of his ears.

. . .

"And you!" Amelia turned abruptly towards Kirk, jabbing a finger at him.

"I didn't do it!" Kirk replied reflexively, both hands going up in the universal 'don't shoot me' motion.

"Don't even get me started on you, Mister Genius-level-repeat-offender," Amelia wagged a finger at him. "Wait a second." Amelia looked back over to Spock, her attention flickering as realization finally kicked in. "You blush green."

"That would be the copper-based blood," Kirk said with a roll of his eyes.

"No, but, I mean, you actually blush green!" Amelia exclaimed.

"Yes, that is an accurate observation. I am, after all, half Vulcan," Spock said in a low voice.

"But…that means…"

"I think the light bulb is finally going off," Quinn smiled, clapping her hands together in excitement. "Wait for it, here comes the fun part!"

. . .

Amelia rubbed her forehead, attempting to puzzle through the connotation. "Okay...so you're a Vulcan."

Kirk nodded several times.

"So...you're really JTK..."

"Isn't it delightful?" Quinn asked, wrinkling her nose in amusement. "Real life space men!"

"Oh. Oh my... my Gods! Y'all are really from the future!"

"Finally," Kirk threw his hands to the ceiling, "now she gets it."

Amelia rolled her eyes. "So you guys are actually from the Federation... I mean I don't know if y'all are from the Nero timeline, but-"

. . .

Instantly, Kirk was on his feet, expression dark. "What do you know about Nero?" he demanded, tone commanding.

Amelia took a step back, this time her hands going up in innocence. "Whoa. Answers that question," she muttered to herself. "Nothing that isn't fictional here." Warily now, she regarded the Captain. "He, well, he was a mass-murdering fuckhead. Destroyed Vulcan and two-thirds of the 'Fleet. Did…" Amelia glanced over to Spock, swallowing nervously. "Did your mom… Was she lost with Vulcan?" Amelia asked carefully, looking back and forth between Kirk and Spock.

Spock's eyebrow arched greatly, one corner of his mouth ticked downward just enough to signal what, on a human, would be a fierce scowl. "No, she was not. My betrothed was; her signal was lost in transport to the Enterprise."

"Oh. My condolences on your loss." Amelia waited a moment then looked to Kirk. "So…I swear I'm not trying to be an asshole here, hon, but just so I know what metaphoric land mines to avoid, did you ever go off world as an early teen? Say, to your aunt's place?"

The Captain went dead pale, his pupils dilating in shock. "How…why do you know that? Why do you know that?" He turned away abruptly, stalking away and straight out the front door without pause.

"Captain. Jim!" Spock called after him. He turned, his full dark eyed glare focused on Amelia. "What have you said that upset the Captain so greatly?"

"Not my story to tell," Amelia said, infinitely sad for both men. "While I think that personal tragedy is great for building character, there is no way that I would wish your lives on anyone. I am sorry for your loss, Commander Spock. As for the Captain…"

"I must go retrieve him," Spock said, turning away from the human girl.

"No," Amelia jumped over the back of the couch and stepped in his way.

"Remove yourself from my path. Whatever you have done to disturb the Captain so greatly-"

"I'll fix it. You, mister desert-born person, are going to stay right here and I'll go out into the snow, thanks. I'll bring your captain back," Amelia promised, glancing at Quinn. "Make some tea, would ya, boss lady? I'll be right back."

. . .

Night had enveloped the woods completely when Amelia stepped out the front door, her eyes scanning the white landscape for the blonde head of one Captain James T. Kirk. When she didn't see him, she looked down to the ground, following the snowy footprints with her eyes to where they disappeared into the forest. Ducking back in to grab the lantern hanging on the wall and the coat the Captain had left behind; Amelia shrugged on Quinn's hot pink parka and stuffed her feet back into her snow boots. She paused once more, to light the lantern, and hurried out into the forest, following the tracks of Jim Kirk.

"Captain Kirk?" she called as soon as she was in the tree line. "Captain Kirk, this isn't a game of hide and seek, ya know. It's sort of sub-zero temperatures out here and I have your coat."

The relative silence of the forest was her answer. Hanging the coat on a nearby branch, she zipped her borrowed coat up, thankful for the gloves that had been stashed in one of the pockets.

Grabbing the coat, she continued, increasing her pace until she was jogging, the motion sending light swaying into the forest before her.

. . .

Almost fifteen minutes had passed and there was still no sign of the Enterprise's Captain.

"Gorram it, Kirk, where are you?" The tracks abruptly stopped at a large snow drift, with no sign of the Captain anywhere. "Jim? Come on, I know you're upset but becoming a Kirkcicle isn't going to solve anything!" Worried now, Amelia dug into the snow drift, and found absolutely nothing. "James Tiberius Kirk, you had better be here!" Amelia bellowed. "Where the fuck are you?"

She gave a squeak of alarm as a massive drift of snow smacked her over the head, burying her upper torso under cold, wet snow. The lantern landed in the snow beside her, going out almost immediately.

"Wow, you look like you should be wearing ruby slippers," Amelia heard a familiar voice say from near her left side. She kicked out; feeling triumphant when she connected with something, cackling when the grunt and thump of someone falling into snow was also audible.

. . .

Clawing her way out from under the small mountain of snow, Amelia sat up, pulling Kirk's parka out from under the snow he had dropped on her.

"Ha ha, farm boy," Amelia said, tossing his coat at him. "Serves you right for dropping all that snow on me."

"At least you brought my coat," Jim said, pulling said garment on as soon as he was less covered in snow. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

They were silent as Kirk worked to pull on all his protective gear and Amelia tried to re-light the lantern. Once they were both successful, Amelia broke the silence.

. . .

"I wasn't trying to upset you. Honest," she said, leading the way, following their combined tracks by the light of the lantern she had gotten relit.

"I realized that the first time I heard you screech my name," Kirk said, his voice muffled from within the confines of his Starfleet issued parka.

"I didn't screech anything," Amelia said with a sniff of irritation. "And I had no intention of letting the golden boy of Starfleet become an outdoor Popsicle in the 21st century. That just doesn't make a good story for the history books, hon; especially if no one knows you're here."

They hurried through the forest at a moderate pace, mostly silent save for the crunch of snow beneath their shoes.

. . .

"I really am sorry, Captain," Amelia said as the break in the tree line signaled their impending arrival back at Quinn's cabin. "And if there's anything I can do to help… Well, ya know, just ask."

He looked over at her, features mostly obscured by winter gear and the shadows the swinging lantern cast. "Call me Jim," he said, taking the lantern from her hand. "You already know a lot about me, right? Might as well," he reasoned. "Besides, it's not like I'm a captain of anything here."

"Well, Jim," Amelia yanked her scarf from over her mouth as they knocked the snow off their boots before they climbed the stairs to where Quinn and Spock were waiting. "That offer to crash with me is still open."

"Don't say 'crash'," Jim groaned, remembering the shuttle still buried in the drifts of snow several miles away. "But thanks."

"So did you really sleep with every female cadet in the Engineering department?" Amelia grinned at the roar of laughter Jim gave, opening the door to where the concerned Vulcan and her boss waited.

"I never kiss and tell, Miss Amelia," Jim assured her solemnly.

"Ah huh, and I bet you never cheat on simulations either." More laughter was her answer.

* * *

_Note: Sorry for the multi-posting, but I'm still trying to find a readable format. :( Stupid line breaks._


	3. Chapter 3: Tofu and Teasing

**Author's Note:** _You guys have no idea how much fun this was to write with and for my darling girls: my beloved gal pal and Beta reader GhostieGirl, who I'm convinced, at times, is Kirk in disguise, my adorable Cupcake of Win, the precious Puck and my mythologically amazing Koala. 3 There is much laughter to be had in this chapter, also a lot of Vulcan, with in-line translations. Also, still not mine, don't sue, I'm broke and it's rent week. Also, any grammatical errors, be they in Vulcan or English, are mine. I'm still working on getting it in an easy-to-read format so bear with me._  
_On with the story!_

_**Edit: Son of a line monkey-buggering linebreak! I hope this format is much easier to read. 3  
**_

* * *

"You still have to take your shoes off, guys," Amelia said, kicking off her boots the moment she got in the door, keys jangling in one hand as she held the door open for Jim and Spock. Coat, hat, scarf, gloves; all the snow-coated outerwear was hung up as the three made their way down the small hallway and into the apartment. "Hey, the heat's still on! Isn't that nifty? Y'all are a good luck charm! Maybe I'll even get the gorram thing fixed before spring thaw."

"If it stays on all night, we should be happy, right?" Jim asked ruffling his hair to get rid of any extra snow that lingered. Blue eyes, though tired, scanned the room again, moving to unbury the couch from the mountain of throw pillows. "I'll move these."

. . .

"I'll shut the door in the spare room, set up the space heater out here, and dig out a bunch of extra blankets," Amelia said. "In fact, if the three of us crash out here, we can get more warmth." Amelia bustled around the room, shoving the coffee table against one wall, tilting it up to make more room. "Just 'scuse me, real quick," Amelia smiled at Spock, who was standing stiffly just inside the hallway curtain as she moved a pile of papers to a slightly organized mess on the floor.

"Had people crash over here often?" Jim asked, helping to un-bury the coffee table

"Often enough to know how to deal with a likely starfish sleeper and a touch-me-not," Amelia grinned. "The big couch pulls out into a bed and I'll take the squishy chair. If you guys wrap up separately, you should be able to avoid contact, even if the good Captain sleeps like a starfish. Any objections?"

"That arraignment should be satisfactory for the time being," Spock gave a slight jerk of his head in agreement.

"For tonight at least," she agreed, "we'll figure out something a little better in the morning when I can think a little better."

"You know, that's pretty handy, you knowing about the whole from the future, alien life-form, touch-telepath thing," Jim gave a yawn, stretching his arms above his head.

. . .

"Yup. Anyway, I've got some spare dude clothing in the sewing room, I think. You're a, what, 30x32, Captain?" At Jim's nod she grinned. "I'm good at the whole guessing measurements thing. Mister Spock, what about you? Are you a 32 by 36? Or… if you think in metric, 82 by 92, approximately?"

"That is accurate enough," Spock nodded.

"Yeah, I think I have something that'll fit you guys. Lemme raid the scrap pile and see what I've got here."

"You can call me Jim, you know," the Captain called, rubbing his arms from the chill that lingered. "Since we're crashing with you and all."

"Jim, do you have a problem with monkeys at all?"

"Uh…no? Why?" Jim wandered over towards the sewing room, glancing in the doorway only to get smacked in the face with a pair of bright yellow sleep pants with monkeys all over them. "Wow those are bright." He winced at the giant smiling monkey on the rear of the pants. "These'll work. The lights will be off, right?"

. . .

"Yeah; got some a-shirts here; they're not your regulation blacks, but they'll work. And where are the other gorram…" There was a crash and skitter of something spilling over, a muttered curse from Amelia and another pair of sleep pants, blue with strange eyed frogs, came flying out of the doorway.

"And here are the shirts. Do you want me to make something for you guys to eat?" she asked, offering an off-white a-shirt to both men.

"I could eat something," Jim nodded.

"Well, I don't have a replicator, but I'm sure I can whip up something a Starship Captain and his First Officer can eat," she smiled, "even got some vegetarian stuff I can throw together, I think."

. . .

Spock arched a brow at her statement, jumping into the conversation for the first time since they had left Quinn's cabin. "I am still uncertain I fully understand your reasoning: you are still willing to offer the Captain and I a place to stay knowing of our true origins?"

Amelia shrugged, giving a stretch of her own as the long day started to creep up on her, muscles protesting the elongated stress of movement. "Well, you know what they say…"

"In this particular century or in ours?" Jim grinned, his head tilted sideways to read the titles of the books on the shelf in front of him.

"Sarcastic little thing, aren't you, Jimmy-boy? And actually, in either century; it just depends on the language."

"Why are you willing to help us, anyway?" Jim asked, trailing a finger along the spines of several books. "You don't know us; you're not from our time… I don't get it."

. . .

Amelia smiled, looking at both the man and the half Vulcan, thinking for a moment before she responded.

"I grew up on stories of you guys; I mean, I've heard all about you guys since I was a kid, being a second generation nerd and all. I know all about the exploits of the Enterprise and her crew in so many mediums: books, television, movies, and even fictional works have been penned about you guys since before I was even born. While I don't know you guys personally, I know a ridiculously nerdy amount about you, your universe, and all of that which makes me feel a little…" She trailed off as she wracked her mind for a fitting word. "Protective," she decided with a nod, "of you two now that you're stuck here for six months. You're friends I haven't made yet, and I'm always happy to help a friend."

. . .

Spock arched a brow, resisting the very human urge to roll his eyes at Amelia's sunny smile. His irritation simply signaled an elongated period of time awake and exerting his physical being in labor, coupled with an extended period of time in uncomfortably low temperatures his exhaustion was greatly influencing his emotional control. It logically accumulated into a need for meditation.

. . .

"_Du riyet starun_," he said quietly, straightening his shoulders when Amelia turned towards him with a smirk. '_**You are a speaker of false words**__._'

"What was that, Mister Spock?" Amelia said her tone now a bit sharper but the smile still on her face.

"Nothing; I was simply expressing a passing thought aloud," Spock shifted his glance over to Jim when he snorted in amusement. The Captain had been making inferences recently about his desire to learn Vulcan in order to better understand the Vulcans they encountered, even if they were not aware of his fluency.

"Thinking aloud? Since when do you do that?" Jim asked, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Methinks the Vulcan is a bit grumpy. In need of meditation, are we?"

"_Veling t'nash-veh pla'kruslar,_" Amelia said, turning to face Spock fully, muttering the phrase under her breath as she walked by. '_**Nothing my butt**_**.**' "Hey, farm boy, help me pull out the couch."

. . .

"So, what do they say?" Kirk asked again, moving more couch cushions to help pull out the folding mattress.

"In y'all's neck of the woods? Mmm…I suppose they'd say: '_Shiyau thol'es k'thorai k'ahm, opi spunau bolayalar t'wehku bolayalar t'zamu il t'veh_' or something along those lines." Amelia flicked her gaze over to Spock, whose eyebrows were trying their hardest to meet his hairline. '_**Nobility lies in action, not in name, since the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one.**_'

Jim looked from Spock to Amelia, leaning backwards to rest against the wall behind him, feeling like a spectator in an intellectual standoff. "And once more in Federation Standard…Or English for that matter? Either one."

Neither Spock nor Amelia turned away from one another, her chin going up as Spock straightened into parade rest.

. . .

"_Nash-veh fam s'frei. Du ek'ariben-Vuhlkansu?_" Spock inquired his voice flat, devoid of emotion. '_**I do not understand. You speak Vulcan?**_'

"_Kau-bosh Vuhlkansu,_" Amelia said her tone sarcastic and teasing. '_**Wise Vulcan**__,_' she mocked him, falling back into a flatter, more emotionless pronunciation immediately afterwards. "_Du sahris nah-tor. Nash-veh oren-tor Vulkansu-tal, suvel nahan fa'Surak eh po'Surak. Nash-veh kah'ru vesht-var t'whl'q'n, ek'ariben-Vuhlkansu_." She wasn't able to keep her hands from her hips, passionate in her body language, if not in voice. '_**You're so quick to judge a person. I have made a study of Vulcantology, both pre- and post- Reform. I know the history of your people, the language of **__**Vulcan**_**.**'

Jim rolled his eyes, glancing back and forth between the two as they obviously traded barbs in his First Officer's native tongue. He was barely able to follow along and thus far the conversation had been the equivalent of pigtail-pulling or a verbal king of the mountain game.

Spock gave a slight sniff of irritation, his nose twitching once as the only outward sign of his current level of annoyance, attempting to suppress the desire to snap out his reply.

"Du ek'ariben'es," he told her, '_**you are fluent**_' he admitted, '_**though your pronunciation is far too emotional**_**'; "**_**hi du stariben nuh'zherka-bosh**_**.**"

. . .

"Wow," Jim sighed, tossing the sleeping clothes over the back of the nearest object, stepping into Amelia's line of sight. "I'm bored and not fluent in Vulcan or Romulan or whatever the hell you guys are speaking. Can I raid your fridge, Am?" '_Too emotional? Who is the one clenching their fists behind their back there, Mister Spock?_' Kirk thought to himself.

"Knock yourself out, Jim," she said waiting until the blonde moved towards the kitchen to continue. "There should be some leftovers on the second shelf in the blue topped storage containers. Besides, Mister Spock, _komihn; nash-veh zherka-bosh eh lafot_." '_**I'm human; I'm allowed to be flawed and emotional.**_'

"_Du flekh, hi komihn kah'ru kahr'y'tan_," he told her, wincing when he heard Jim smack something glass against another object while rustling through the kitchen. '_**You are strange, a human that knows the Vulcan history.**_'

"Nothing broke!" Jim called, prompting a concerned glance from Amelia. "I swear! I'm just stealing the other micro-section of this sub, all right?"

"That's fine, Jim," Amelia called back. "_Nash-veh tom'izhm shaikong nafu'es. Kahkwa Khart-lan Kirk,_" she said, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms over her chest, jerking her chin towards the kitchen from which there was an endless stream of strange noises. '_**I'm an annoying and strange individual like that. Like Kirk.**_'

"_Du smertau kahkaw Kirk,_" Spock admitted, feeling slightly disquieted that this strange human benefactor spoke his tongue. '_**You do vex me as Kirk does.**_'

. . .

"_Itaren du_!" Amelia laughed the '_**thank you**_', nodding in agreement. "_Du hi kahkaw tas'a, petakova Spock, ple'ma tsu rshaya?_" She tiled her head, a touch of drawl entering into her pronunciation, a smirk over the nickname and casual address of the Starfleet officer. '_**But you are also confusing, darlin' Spock, but cannot the same be said about me?**_'

"I heard my name!" Jim called, poking his head out of the hallway curtain. "No talking about me when I can't understand what you're saying and refute it properly or admit it's correct. Also, still hungry. Starving starship captain here. Feed me."

"Don't worry about it, hon, we're not saying anything bad about you," she assured him, waving him back toward the kitchen. "Raid away, but don't touch that chocolate cake. I'll break your gorram fingers if you do, Cap'in Kirk. That's for Critch's birthday tomorrow." Amelia smothered a yawn behind one hand.

. . .

"Dammit." Jim tried to pout, realizing he was still alone in the kitchen. "What about the pot roast?"

"That's fair game," she assured him, "but only if you're not allergic to garlic."

"Awesome, I'm not." There was another concerning clink-almost crash from the kitchen."

"Do you want me to heat it up for you?" Amelia offered. Whatever response was smothered and mumbled. "I guess that's a no. Use a fork, you barbarian!"

Another garbled phrase came out of the kitchen, something along the lines of 'where are they'.

"Second drawer on the left. And don't you dare make a mess in my kitchen, Kirk. I will punch you as hard as I can."

. . .

"…_Du…Por shinsarat, Amelia,_" Spock said, his confusion reflected in the single brow he arched at her. '_**You…you are out of your mind, Amelia**_**.**'

She laughed, straightening from the wall with a nod. "_Ah_. You'll get used to it, I'm sure. You have six months, after all. _Du k'avon?_" she asked, rolling her now-stiff shoulders. '_**Yes…Are you hungry?**_' She walked past him, holding the curtain open to imply he should follow.

"I admit to being slightly confused by your temperamental nature…" Spock said, letting the curtain fall shut behind him.

"You mean because I'm human or because I'm a human from an alternate past that can speak your language?" Amelia laughed again, amused genuinely this time. "Hon, this particular human is from two centuries away from your present time period. You're lucky I speak anything you can understand, never mind a close proximity to your native tongue."

. . .

Jim, around a mouthful of roast beef, smiled. "S'logical! She's got you there, Spock!"

"Can I do a victory dance now?" Amelia asked, doing a quick wiggle around the linoleum floor in socked feet. "So, dinner, Mister Spock?"

"Yes. _Itaren_, Amelia, _vu dvin dor etwel,_" he told her. '_**Thank you, your service honors us**_.'

"_Nafai, Spock. Veling, velik gol-tor._ Oh! I think I have some tofu in the refrigerator. Want some sautéed with veggies?" Amelia shrugged off his thanks as quickly as possible, flushing slightly in embarrassment. '_**You're welcome, Spock. It's nothing, simply helping**_**.**'

. . .

"So, are you guys done flirting with each other?" Jim asked, actually swallowing his mouthful of pot roast before speaking, dropping the empty storage container into the sink and running water to rinse it out. "Because as cute as it is, I'm still hungry and unless we want a visit from the fire department, you do not want me cooking."

"We weren't flirting; we were having a perfectly logical discussion, **Captain**," Amelia sneered the title a little, her sore back giving a twinge as she bent to look in the refrigerator. "If I was the tofu, I would be…"

"Isn't all Vulcan foreplay intellectual?" Jim laughed when Amelia swung an irritated hand in his general direction, tossing the now-located tofu onto the countertop.

"Hey, Spock, v_eh kwon-sum nash-kro'el?_" Amelia asked, pulling a selection of vegetables out of the crisper, offering them to Jim as she spoke. '_**He always this way?**_'

"Incessantly," Spock assured her, taking the second load of vegetables from her and depositing them on the counter as Jim had done.

"Good to know." Amelia kicked the fridge door shut, snagging a cutting board and dropping it on the counter. "Tofu stir fry for dinner. _Du messau_?" '_**Do you approve?**_'

. . .

"Now kids, speak in Standard so the whole class can understand you or don't speak at all," Jim chided in a sing-song tone. "Because I like being able to add my two cents in, no matter the language."

"As if a language barrier has ever stopped you before?" Amelia inquired, shooing him out of the way to reach the sink. The kitchen was a little too small to have three people in it at once, but Amelia was well used to cooking with people underfoot. "If memory serves, you've bedded at least six different races by this time, including one sexy Orion chick."

"Well, no, I don't, and yes I did, but usually the sexual tension is directed towards me, not floating around me like some sort of super dense atom cloud." Jim snagged an apple from the basket of fruit on the counter, crunching into it with relish as he watched the verbal tennis match continue. "But whatever, you guys can enjoy your sexual tension all ya like." He motioned to the half Vulcan and human woman with the apple. "Knock yourself out, it's an amusing pastime."

"You're hallucination, Captain. There is no sexual tension of any time here!" She snagged the apple, stuffing it in his mouth as he went to protest and hip-checked him out of the way, rinsing her own hands before she began cutting the vegetables. "Get over there; I can't cook with you in the way."

. . .

Jim fought the apple out of his mouth, swallowing before speaking.

"Right, so now that you two are done pretending to not be into each other, or whatever verbal mating dance that was, I was hoping we could discuss, perhaps even in Standard, our plan for employment and you know, getting the hell out of Dodge."

"Captain, we are not, as you phrased it, into each other. How can we be thus described when we are 1.73 meters across the room from one another? Also, our current location is Elgin, Illinois, not any territory known as Dodge."

"Score one for Team Literally Minded," Amelia grinned, snagging a mixing bowl from the cabinet above her head and dropping some of the cut vegetables into it. "What Mister Spock means to say is that we just met, hotshot, and just because you slept through Language Lab, in more ways than one, doesn't mean we should be stuck to speaking Standard." Amelia cast a glance at Spock. "_Du khart-lan if beglanau–kahk wak fam kastorilau kash-to-vel, ri_?" '_**Your captain is fond of attention when he's not being mentally stimulated, no?**_'

Spock gave a brief nod, holding out his hands for the bowl when Amelia realized she had pretty much run out of counter space. "_I'tepul if shaht-fam, mau flakosh–tor vath sular._" '_**At times, his energy is boundless, much to the distress of others**_,' he said, arching a brow at Jim's disgusted sigh.

. . .

"Well, if you two want me to participate, instead of being a slightly-awkward voyeur while you two are making verbal love to each other then give me a call in a language I do speak."

Amelia shot him an annoyed glance over her shoulder, rinsing off the knife to cube the green pepper in front of her. "Sorry, blonde, body language only works in strip joints; I can give Standard a try though."

"If you are both done being disagreeable about the subject of our preferred manner of communication," Spock cut in, "perhaps it would be wise to take the Captain's suggestion and plan for our future return."

"I think perhaps you mean our return to the future." Jim puzzled the phrasing. "Future return?"

"We're going back to the future?" Amelia choked on her laughter, setting the knife down to transfer the green pepper to the bowl. "Do we have to go 88 miles an hour?"

Jim's brow wrinkled in concentration as he tilted his head. "Wait, I think I get that reference. Give me a second because that sounds really familiar…"

"Think of a flux capacitor, Captain. Specifically the cinematic trilogy you inflicted upon me when I joined you in quarantine when you caught that paralytic strain of influenza after leave on Starbase 36 three point two months ago." Spock arched a brow, humor showing in his dark eyes as Jim laughed.

"Back to the Future!" the blonde crowed, nearly falling over in his amusement.

. . .

When Jim finally settled back down, Amelia turned to him, the last of the vegetables going into the bowl. "Hand me that wok on the pot rack behind you. No, the big bowl looking one; yeah that one. And I'm not being disagreeable, I'm being sassy, there's a difference in any language."

Jim handed her the wok, his expression clearly saying he didn't believe her. "Well I disagree."

"You would, farm boy! You argue for the sake of arguing," Amelia said, setting the wok to heat while she diced the tofu.

"Farm boy? I do not argue for the sake of arguing! And listen here, you live in the middle of a frozen wasteland of corn and cows; who are you calling farm boy?" Jim demanded, arms crossing over his chest.

Spock spoke up. "She is, in technicality, correct Captain, as you did grow up on a farm in Iowa."

"E tu, Brutus? Thrown under the bus by my own first officer," Jim bemoaned dramatically, "who won't even call me by my name when we're stuck in an alternate past, sans the ship or any other crew members! Woe is me!"

. . .

"Oh, suck it up, spaceman, besides, I was born in Chicago, I'm just a city girl at heart, only out here for, well, my own reason. Anyway, we do have cows out here, if you get lonely, you know." She giggled at his gob-smacked expression. "But I swear to Gods the first time you get hauled into the local lockup for a bar fight, I'm leaving your Captainly ass there, so keep the intoxication here, gorramit."

"Did you seriously just imply that I fornicate with cows?"

"Imply? No, directly infer, is more like it. And it wouldn't surprise me, with what you get up to with most anything else. Not to mention I'm sure it was lonely on that farm out in Riverside, Iowa, home of corn fields and repeat offenders. Do you have a Betsy at home who misses you?" She fluttered her lashes at him, cackling with glee when he scowled and turned away, pouting in the direction of the wall.

. . .

"Nyota did state that you have a fondness for non-humanoid creatures," Spock mused allowed. "Does this opinion, in fact, have basis in reality, Jim?"

"You totally just called him a cow-fucker!" Amelia seemed unable to stop laughing for several moments, one hand wrapped around her stomach as she gasped for breath, dropping her knife to the cutting board to lean against the counter, tears of mirth in her eyes. "Kirk, the cow-screwing captain! Ha, ha!"

"I refuse to dignify so low a suggestion with a response," Jim informed the pair, once Amelia seemed able to breathe again, without turning from the wall. "Besides, I've only been here for a few days, and in my experience it is steers that are the more lonely creatures"

"Why Captain, I didn't know you preferred your love creatures male!" Amelia smirked when Jim whirled around, playfully scandalized and insulted, his outrage comically exaggerated.

"I don't have to stand here and take this abuse," he cried, stalking out of the kitchen and giving the dividing curtain a dramatic flair out of his way.

"You can go anywhere and get it?" Amelia called after him, pitching her voice over the sizzling on the stove. "I hear your favorite little Miss Nyota is particularly fond of dishing it out. You masochist, you."

. . .

Spock now stationed next to the stove, both for the warmth it provided and having been directed to that location to assist as a bowl-holder, also raised his vocal volume to be heard over the noise the tofu made in the wok.

"I have not, under any manner of credible, heard of Nyota dishing out such treatment to the Captain or any other crew member of the Enterprise. I also disagree with her willingly satisfying any of the Captain's needs beyond that she fulfills on duty as the Communications Officer."

Amelia snickered at his stoic-but-annoyed expression. "I bet you do, Spock. Hey, did y'all really kiss on the transporter platform? Like, suck face in front of God, Starfleet security cameras, and Scotty?"

"I have no comment on the matter." Spock looked almost like he wanted to squirm with discomfort, his hands clenching and unclenching on the bowl he still held.

Jim burst back into the room, apple already consumed to the core, and grinned wolfishly. "I bet you don't, Spock, old buddy. You didn't have any comment on the matter either, when I was standing right next to you and the admittedly very fine Lieutenant Uhura."

"If you recall Cap-Jim, you had inquired about Lieutenant Uhura's first name, not the nature of our relationship."

Amelia snickered again, relieving Spock of the bowl he held once the vegetables were tossed into the wok. "Ah huh. _Du wadi ha'yar-kur mesuvulau. Nash-veh du fluhvaya_," she teased him lightly. '_**Your skin is turning green…I think you are blushing!**_'

. . .

"Hey! What did I say about speaking in a way we can all understand?" Jim demanded, scooping the cutting board and knife up to deposit them in the sink.

"Hey," she parroted his exclamation without turning her attention from the stove, sprinkling some seasoning on the cooking veggies and tofu. "This is my rodeo, farm boy, I'm the captain of this metaphoric ship and I can speak in whatever gorram language I choose to."

"A rodeo, huh?" Jim looked momentarily thoughtful. "I would've brought my assless chaps had I known. Maybe I can get a pair around here…"

Amelia spun around, spoon in hand and looked Jim from top to toe, and then shot her gaze to the ceiling, cheeks turning crimson. "Oh my Gods, that's a mental image I did not need. Brain bleach, please?" She returned her focus to the meal she was preparing. "So, am I to assume the reason for not wearing full pants to a rodeo is for easy access?"

"Pardon my confusion, but ease of access for whom, Amelia?" Spock asked, willfully playing straight man to her joke.

"Isn't it obvious?" Amelia beamed at him. "For the steers! Ride 'em cowboy!" she cackled gleefully.

"And we're back to assuming I have relations with cows. Dammit, you two are dangerous together. Can we re-direct the conversation now?"

. . .

"If we are speaking of conversational direction, perhaps the upper atmosphere should be the next direction? We must figure out how to best repair the shuttle before the five month, twenty nine day window expires," Spock said, moving aside when Amelia waved a hand at him to scoot to one side.

"You can't just say six months?" she asked, grabbing a trio of bowls from a cabinet next to the stove, handing them to Spock to hold since she was still out of useable counter space.

Jim grinned, shaking his head in the negative. "No, he can't, or won't. Vulcans are horrible approximators."

. . .

"I disagree, Captain. Vulcans are excellent approximators; they simply chose to do so to a more finite level than is the human norm."

"How so? How is saying five months and twenty nine days better than saying almost six months?" Jim asked, leaning against the kitchen door frame.

"It would have been far more specific had I mentioned further detailed measurements, however simplifying it to a six month time period would have been far too lax in description. Given that you are both human and would have objected to anything overly detailed, I rationed that including the further details of the hour and minute would be superfluous." Spock arched a brow, as if daring Jim to contradict him further.

. . .

Instead, the human laughed and shook his head, amused by the wit the Vulcan so rarely let others outside of the Command team see. "See, this is why you're great to have around. You're funny as hell, even if you still couldn't round up to six months."

"Perhaps he thought your attention would be elsewhere with all the mention of cattle?" Amelia asked sweetly, adding a sprinkle of salt and dash of a dark sauce to the dish.

"My attention would hardly be as diverted as much as yours tends to be around certain Vulcan-speaking individuals," Jim returned without missing a beat.

. . .

Amelia snorted in amusement, turning towards Jim with the wooden spoon still in her fist. "You do realize you just implicitly admitted to wanting cow sex?" she asked, waving said spoon in his face.

"Ha! Only as much as you denied flirting with Spock this whole conversation!"

"Is the problem that I am sharing banter, a simple intellectual exchange, with your First Officer rather than you? Would your ego recover faster if I flirted with you instead, farm boy? Here, allow me: moo, moo, and moo."

"Please! My ego isn't the under attack," the Captain assured her. "If I recall, you were the one pretending to be a cow, in order to entice a Starfleet commandeer from over two hundred years in a parallel future. If anyone's ego needs defending it's yours, honey."

"My ego? My ego?" Amelia shoved the wooden spoon at Spock. "Stir that please." She wheeled on Jim, a challenging smile stretched across her face. "Listen, **honey**, I was born in 1985, I'm a G to the 8th MILF for you. I am almost two hundred and fifty years older than you! That's not ego-killing, that's winning the game of life!" She rested her hands on her hips, her chin up as she crowded into Jim's personal space. "I am going to make you the best damned tofu stir fry you have ever had. And then I'm going to make you do dishes. And do you know why?"

"Nope, not a damn clue!" Jim smiled his hands also on his hips in a mockery of her posture.

"Because I know how to work the stove and unless you want to spend the next six months living on dumpster diving finds and worked off meals, I'm going to be the bitch in the kitchen making sure you eat. Play nice. Or else."

. . .

The transformation of Jim's face from smug to pouting was an amusing one. Unfortunately, Amelia missed it, having taken the spoon back from Spock and resumed cooking.

"You humans are an utterly illogical race at times," Spock said, glancing back and forth between the human pair. "Setting aside for the moment the questionable carnal tastes of the Captain, perhaps the three of us can focus so that we might work on fixing the Shuttle?" Spock asked, moving to one side as Amelia shuffled around the kitchen to grab silverware and glasses.

"And while we're at it, will you two quit implying, inferring, indirectly stating and otherwise saying I screw cows or any other non-humanoid creatures?"

"Fine. Jeeze. Dinner's done," she said, handing the glasses and silverware to Jim before grabbing the bowls from Spock. "Seriously though, we have approximately six months," she grinned over at Spock for an instant, "before the next temporal anomaly that would allow you guys to get home. So, I think I know a mechanic that could get us some scrap metal, but we'll have to jury rig everything else. If you have the schematics on it somewhere, I can try and look it over and figure it out? I part time at the car shop, so like I said I might be able to get some spare parts."

"That's good," Jim nodded, holding his hands out for the bowl Amelia just filled. "So, the little dining room, right?"

"Yeah. I've got a jar of cider warming over the radiator, I'll snag it and we'll eat," Amelia said, dishing the other two bowls full.

"That sounds agreeable," Spock said, taking the bowl from Amelia.

* * *

"G'night guys," Amelia said, shutting off the light at the far end of the room.

Spock and Jim tried not to feel awkward as they inches away from one another, each separately snuggled into several blankets.

Amelia stood by the light for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the relative darkness of the room, nearly pitch black except for the one curtain still up, letting in light from a streetlight nearby. She silently made her way back to the little couch where she curled up, making a little nest to fall asleep into as she listened to the breathing of her two guests.

"I hope you guys sleep well; and if you wake up before me, feel free to raid the fridge in the morning," she yawned. "But don't eat too much; we're meeting the Ambassador and his little trained office monkey for lunch."

"Yeah, we remember. Night Amelia," Jim said, turning onto his side, away from Spock. "G'night Spock."

"Good night, Jim. Sleep well, Amelia," the half Vulcan said stiffly, laying flat on his back under multiple layers. The hat Amelia gave him, something Amelia had termed 'gimmie merch', had strangely bore the Science department's emblem and had been pulled down as far as it would go over his chilled ears.

. . .

While Jim fell asleep quickly, tired as he was, both Spock and Amelia seemed unable to easily find rest.

"You still awake, Spock?" Amelia whispered quietly, without turning over. An hour of near complete silence was driving her batty.

"Affirmative," he said back in a low tone, rising up onto his elbows to glance to the small couch where Amelia still lay. "I also find myself unable to find sleep at this time."

"Do you need a space to meditate?" Amelia asked, finally turning over to stare into the darkness of the living room to where she could barely see the outline of the Vulcan on her couch.

"I was able to meditate earlier while you were in the shower, but thank you."

"Oh. Well, if you can't sleep, I could get you a book or something?"

"Negative. As we must seek gainful employment in the morning, and you have work, it would be best to attempt to sleep at this time," Spock said, lying back down. "But I appreciate your offer of reading materials."

. . .

Amelia nodded and made a noise of some basic agreement as she yawned, snuggling back into her little nest of blankets. "I figure that Vulcans, or half Vulcans for that matter, either don't dream or don't admit to dreaming, but I hope you sleep well and, if you dream, dream well," she said, eyes finally drifting shut.

"Thank you, Amelia," Spock whispered back into the darkness, listening to the breathing of the two humans in the room as they slept.

* * *

End Note: _Holy crap this was a fuckton of work. Oy. Next chappy in a week or three. ^_^_


End file.
